The Reverie of a Mother

The moon hung low over Blossomhollow Estate, spilling pale light through the delicate branches of the orchard that framed the ancient blossom tree at its heart. Each petal shimmered silver, as if dusted with starlight. A hush settled over the grounds, only the rustle of leaves and distant quivers of night insects punctuated the stillness.

Liora stepped softly along the gravel path, following Lady Amalia's silhouette. The elder woman moved with quiet grace, her shawl wrapped tightly around slender shoulders. Though frail, she still held herself like a queen. And tonight, beneath the moon, her composure felt almost regal.

They paused beside the blossom tree. Its petals drifted through the air like surrendering whispers, and the gnarled trunk stretched outward as though offering a silent embrace.

Lady Amalia reached out, touching a fallen blossom with gentle fingers. "It's rare to see the mantle bloom in winter," she said softly. "A reminder that beauty endures even when the world turns cold."

Liora watched her quietly. Being here in the moonlit orchard felt like stepping into a living memory, one older than Amalia's, older even than the Edelhardt name.

"I heard you reading in the library this afternoon," Amalia continued. "History of our house… and of others."

Liora nodded, inhaling the faint honey scent that lingered in the night air, beeswax, sweet spice from the hearth, and something more ephemeral, like promise.

"Tell me what you saw," Amalia said, closing her eyes for a moment.

Liora swallowed. "That House Edelhardt was once a minor seat... many tried to swallow it up. But your mother, she resisted. She negotiated, repaired, held firm."

Amalia's lips curved faintly. "Yes. And when she passed, the world forgot her. We had to stand in places of power that few believed we could claim."

Liora felt the ache behind that memory. She imagined a younger Amalia, full of fire and conviction, the sword and silk both at once. She wondered if she could ever be that.

Amalia opened her eyes and looked at her. "You remind me of that spirit. Of young courage that doesn't know it yet."

Night air cooled around them. A breeze brushed past, stirring the petals into motion.

"You're still learning," she added. "But soon, you will know more than you feel capable of yet."

Liora asked slowly, "Does something worry you?"

Amalia floated a hand over Liora's head, as if blessing her with moonlight. "Only this house's future," she said. Then, pulling a folded letter from her gown, she pressed it lightly into Liora's hand. "This is for you. To be opened only... when you feel lost."

Liora's breath fluttered. The envelope was thick and sealed with wax. Holding it felt like holding someone's trust, someone's last hope.

"Why now?" she asked softly.

Amalia's eyes glowed with memory. "Because time is a gift and I don't want to waste it giving advice only after it's too late."

Liora braced herself as silence deepened. She sensed something unspoken, as though Amalia were stepping past a threshold. Knew she might never stay on this side.

Suddenly Amalia's posture stiffened. Her gaze darted upward.

Liora followed her glance and saw, on the edge of the orchard, between shadows, a dark figure.

Hadrian.

The night wrapped around him like a cloak. Even in the dark, his features were sharp, his posture arrogant.

But Amalia did not speak. Only watched.

Then she looked back at Liora.

"We should return," she whispered.

Liora nodded, but her throat tightened. The moment trembled between them, an unspoken farewell, fragile as glass.

They walked back slowly. The blossoms drifted around them like reminders of time fleeting.

Arriving at the front of the great house, Amalia stopped and turned toward Liora.

"Liora," she said, voice steady but tender, "will... will things always stay like this?"

Under the silver moonlight, under petals falling and something deeper shifting, Liora hesitated.

Then she whispered, "I don't know."

Amalia's fingers brushed Liora's cheek softly. "That's okay," she murmured. "Because we will learn what comes next... together."

A blossom drifted between them, its petal quivering, then falling.

And beneath the moonlit orchard, Liora felt the roots shift, deepening in winter soil. She carried Amalia's letter close to her heart as they departed beneath silent stars.